


how quickly the glamour fades

by endquestionmark



Category: Cinderella (Fairy Tale)
Genre: F/M, Fractured Fairy Tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-01
Updated: 2012-06-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:49:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/pseuds/endquestionmark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is not what happened: he tried the shoe on her foot, and she covered her mouth with her hands, for it would be unseemly to show her delight, and he drew her to her feet and clasped her hands in his, so that she smiled for all the world to see, and they lived, of course, happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how quickly the glamour fades

they say she wanted to go to the ball and that is a lie if she ever saw one.

they say she fell in love with the prince and they danced till they were weary, laughing at the way their pace slowed, and when the clock struck she lingered over its chimes, left part of herself behind like a hart in the woods, leaving a single cloven track to be hunted.

this is not what happened: he tried the shoe on her foot, and she covered her mouth with her hands, for it would be unseemly to show her delight, and he drew her to her feet and clasped her hands in his, so that she smiled for all the world to see, and they lived, of course, happily ever after.

this is what he does not say: she is, after all, a girl of high birth, as so many are.  you can find them on every street if you try; you can find them in the gutters and the kitchens and in the liver-lit brothels.  you can find them on farms.  every girl has a story to tell of the old money that was lost and the cruel fate that has brought them low.  (most of them are true.  the prince’s father was a cruel king; he did not need nobles thronging about him like babbling ducklings.  far easier to scatter them to the winds than to curry their favor.)

this is what the people whisper in the streets: she was in a kitchen; she was covered in ash; she sang when she was not tending the fire, and she always saved scraps for the old mothers who sat and gossiped on the steps, for the children who brought her news of the spice woman; she always had an open smile and an open heart.

this is what the prince whispers to her as they stand in the back of the chapel: he was doing his duty one day, riding through the streets (always twelve hands high above the muck; always twelve hands high above his subjects, the irony does not escape her) and she smiled that open smile at him and he fell in.  his smile is wide and bright but he grips her hand a little too tight, as if she will bolt, a runaway horse, a runaway prize.

this is what the royal cooks say: the ball - the three balls, the great dances, the galas, call them what you like - happened at a moment’s notice; the king fell ill; it was not them, though he gasped for breath as though his throat had been closed; as if he had been strangled by an invisible hand.  it was not them.  the prince brought him his customary nightcap.  it was not them.  a king must have a queen.

this is what her stepmother says:  _it could be worse, you’re marrying a prince, this is what girls dream of, is it not?  what  _ if _  he smiles like a wolf, what of it?  smile, you look pretty when you do.  wipe away that ash.  isn’t this what you’ve always wanted _ _?_

her stepsisters say nothing, for she has none.  there are no two wicked girls to dance away the night in red-hot shoes; that is her.  she puts on her glass slippers, heavy as iron shackles, and dances until her feet burn, smiles until her cheeks ache, wants to run and run and smear herself with ashes, go to ground until he will never find her.

she does run, once, and - well, the shoes are too tight, aren’t they?  must we clip your wings, little dove?  don’t you want the shoes to fit?

she does not scream.  she refuses to scream.  her stepsisters do not exist and the flagstones are smeared red.

_ i wish_ , she says once, but only once, because now she is friends with the royal cook, now she knows where the kitchens are; her fairy godmother was the spice woman who whispered of hemlock, her grand coach will be the prince’s black stallion.

_ for my husband_ , she says, bringing him his goblet; she smiles, watches him gasp, a beetle beneath her foot, a quarter-turn and he is crushed.

she could rule, she knows, because they fear her; she could run, because they hate her; but.

there is a kitchen, down in the old city, with a sunny back step and a rosy-cheeked cook; ask her if she is a girl of high birth; ask her about wishes.  ask her about happily ever after.  be sure you want to know the answer. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Still in lowercase, as it was written.


End file.
